On Tuesdays, I don’t go to campus to teach, so I sub in my local school district. It didn’t take long to figure out that some jobs are better than others. The pay is lowest at elementary schools because being around young children is so enjoyable, and they use that as leverage. Middle school needs to be avoided at all costs. High schools are really the best places to go, especially if it is a teacher who only teaches juniors and seniors.
On high school days, after I take attendance, I read them the brief email from their teacher informing them of the work they have to do, then they do it, or they don’t. They don’t make a scene about sitting on their phone or chatting with their friends. They exist without feeling any need to exert control over the situation.
Then, I spend the entire day doing all the prep work I have for the week, grading quizzes and tests, and writing lecture notes. I only have to look up to allow students to go to the bathroom.
A couple of Tuesdays ago, I saw a high school and accepted the job. When I showed up, it was the music class. I can’t even snap to a beat, so I just assumed the lesson plan would be, let them do whatever they want.
It was not, but an amazing student made himself available from the start. He must have been Mormon because he was wearing a BYU sweatshirt; I’m assuming the college he’d attend the next year. The kid took over the class and conducted the marching band practice for their upcoming competition. I couldn’t find a desk for the teacher, so I sat in a plastic chair behind him, pulled out my work, and did it on my lap. I didn’t even have to look up to let the kids go to the bathroom, as this kid took care of that for me, too.
I sent my sister an audio text because I was on the front lines of a 50-piece band, blasting their instruments. It was four hours of horns, drums, and other instruments coming right at me. I can’t really put this sound into words, but my closest attempt is, “BWWWWAAAAAA. WRRRRRRRAAAA, BRRRAAAAA.”
The next week, I saw a position at a high school, so I clicked accept, and when I showed up, I realized it was special ed. I don’t mind subbing special ed; those jobs are paid the highest rate, and there are almost as many aides in the classroom as there are students, but I can’t get any of my work done. It is very busy, yet incredibly slow, like sitting with a toddler. The moment I go from vigilant to relaxed, there could be a catastrophe, like a student suddenly bolting from the classroom.
I had only subbed in elementary school special ed before, and seeing these kids as almost adults was new. All of the boys were bigger than me, huge, and they were happy and loved having a hug, but their strength was clocked. It made me almost nervous.
The aides in these classrooms are some of the nicest people I have ever met. When a diaper needs to be changed, I tend to make myself invisible, shrinking behind whatever kid I’m sitting next to, but they don’t mind. When a kid gets one inch from their face, and stares deep into their eyes, they don’t have a moment of thought, like What the hell does this kid see in me right now? They gently push the kid back and say, “Respect my space.”
After eight hours, I am completely exhausted and need to have a shower and a nap. When the parents picked up the kids at the end of the day, I thought of the lifetime they have had of this exhaustion. It makes me wonder what they think when regular people go around announcing they are autistic. Their kids won’t ever have a job, or an apartment, or a sweatshirt announcing their future college. They probably can’t ever go on vacation; they’d go to bed worried sick that their kid will wander off in the middle of the night and get in a fatal accident.
When I go to bed, I recite a prayer I’ve said since middle school, with additions tacked on over the years. It’s become a running list. The latest additions: for my kids to be good students, for us to win the lotto, and for my daughter to be nice to me. They sound ridiculous, but they fit the times.
This morning, when I woke up my daughter, before her usual snarl, I said, “I am just a girl, standing in front of her daughter, asking her to love her.”
She actually smiled. It was a small victory, but a major one in setting the tone of our daily race to leave the house on time.
Later, while watching Real Housewives of Salt Lake City, a clip of Angie’s teenage daughter being an asshole came on. In her confessional, Angie said, “Having a teenager is hard. I dedicated my life to this person, and now they are mean to me. I can’t take it personally, though. I won’t let it hurt my ego.”
Anyone who watches Real Housewives knows nothing can damage these women’s egos, but I still felt comforted by her words. The comfort deepened later in the week when I listened to an old Louie Theroux podcast with Sharon Stone.
She was candid as she spoke about her life and career, and I loved her honest perspective. When she talked about raising three sons, she nailed it, “They want you there, but not there. I was stapled to the couch, but I couldn’t say anything. They need me there, like a scratching post.”
I’m getting great parenting advice from beautiful women, so in their honor, I decided to revisit Sharon Stone’s films. I love Total Recall, it’s one of the best movies ever made, but I hadn’t seen much else. I started with Basic Instinct, a great psychological thriller. My biggest takeaway, story aside, was: Oh yeah… sex is a thing.
The reminder didn’t trigger a prayer. My prayer these days is kind of the opposite of St. Augustine's famous request for delayed chastity. I guess I could tack on, “Lord make me promiscuous… but not yet.”
I have a really important role right now as a silent whipping girl. I’m taking it seriously, and I’m grateful for it.
I’ll tack that gratitude onto my prayer list, right before “win the lotto.”
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